“Wonder how old she is,” repeated Jack Bates, half emptying the syrup pitcher into his plate. Patsy had hot biscuits for supper, and Jack's especial weakness was hot biscuits and maple syrup.
“As to her age,” remarked Shorty, “it's a cinch she ain't no spring chicken, seeing she's the Old Man's sister.”
“Is she a schoolma'am?” Happy Jack's distaste for schoolma'ams dated from his tempestuous introduction to the A B C's, with their daily accompaniment of a long, thin ruler.
“No, she ain't a schoolma'am. She's a darn sight worse. She's a doctor.”
“Aw, come off!” Cal Emmett was plainly incredulous.
“That's right. Old Man said she's just finished taking a course uh medicine—what'd yuh call that?”
“Consumption, maybe—or snakes.” Weary smiled blandly across the table.
“She got a diploma, though. Now where do you get off at?”
“Yeah—that sure means she's a doctor,” groaned Cal.
“By golly, she needn't try t' pour any dope down ME,” cried a short, fat man who took life seriously—a man they called Slim, in fine irony.